Cut Into Stars
by queendromeda
Summary: Sirius Black is freed from Azkaban early. This, predictably, changes everything. - Largely AU, focusing on the interrelationships between the Black Family.
1. the beginning

This is going to be a mess of a story and a very, very self-indulgent one at that. Just as a general note, most of the characters in this chapter never appeared in the series itself, so my characterization of them (and really, my characterization of how the family interacts as a whole) is all based on speculation.

* * *

 _November 1, 1981_

Arcturus, at the start of the war, had decided that it would be in his and Melania's best interests to take an extended vacation to Spain until everything boiled over. Uncle Cygnus had spent an exorbitant amount of his potions fortune on houses and hideaways across the continent — before whatever poison he'd been slipped finally succeeded in eating through his remaining rationality and left a stuttering, paranoid husk where a once great potions master had been. Arcturus had always suspected Aunt Violetta because despite how kindly she seemed, he swore he'd seen flowers wilt in her presence.

Of course, such thoughts were neither here nor there. Both of them were many years dead, as were his parents and both his siblings. But he lived. He was still made of flesh and blood, and he would continue to live, for many more decades if fate was kind.

He sighed as he got to his feet wondering just when his skin started to wrinkle and his bones began to creak. It felt like just yesterday he'd been twenty and traveling through the Schwarzwald with Pollux, searching for magic that Hogwarts wouldn't teach (and, not that Pollux would ever admit it, something to gift young Irma Crabbe to initiate a courtship). His cousin and him had to have spent a fortnight free from the family's expectations; free to be messy and uncouth and recklessly young. Merlin and Morgana, _those_ were the days.

He missed his cousin like he would miss a limb. Pollux and Irma had declined his invitation to stay at the coastal villa, instead choosing to take refuge at an ancestral Crabbe estate in Germany that Irma had somehow managed to strongarm from her young nephew — the current Head of House Crabbe _and_ marked follower of the newest Dark Lord — and he hadn't heard from them in close to three years.

Really, he hadn't heard from anyone in three years.

He'd left his children and grandchildren behind in England, and fled with only Melania and three of their house-elves.

Orion, he knew, was dead. His only son and heir — once ruthless and calculating and so, _so_ careful — was dead. He'd had a heart attack, or so Walburga had written. If his daughter-in-law had a hand in his son's unbecoming _muggle_ death, he wouldn't have been very surprised. Walburga, while never someone he'd call gentle, had only become more unhinged as the years went on, and Orion's disinterest and constant dalliances certainly hadn't helped. For all his faults though, and Arcturus was well aware that there were numerous having spent most of the boy's childhood pointing them out, Orion was still his son, and if Walburga had a hand in his death he would kill her.

Lucretia had married a _Prewett_ of all people and was friends with all sorts of blood-traitors and filth. Not for the first time he lamented letting Melania have the final say in Lucretia's marriage. He had wanted to betroth her to Oren Greengrass, but his wife had huffed and shrieked and slept away from their bed for close to a month. So he relented and listened to what his wife had to say and gave the choice to his daughter. Hardly a week later and she was promised to Ignatius Prewett.

"You see," he'd told Melania, seething and a bit drunk, "You see what a choice gave her. She's disgraced us. She'll turn away from our traditions and values at her first chance. You act tolerant now but what will you say when she breaks this engagement and slips into some mudbloods bed—"

She'd slapped him. "This choice will bind her to us. Even when she doubts us and our ways, she'll remember this kindness. She may be a Black, but before that she is _my_ daughter, and she knows how to pay her debts. Now get out of my sight before I do something I'll very much regret."

Melania, like with most things, was right. Lucretia may have married a Prewett and had two borderline blood-traitor children and socialized with mudbloods and, if the rumors were correct, squibs, but she'd never ran from tradition. She kept the Old Ways and accepted the family magic and raised her children properly, even when her husband complained. It was a good choice, he reflected now, as Oren Greengrass was married to one of the many Burke girls, and all of his sons were pledged to and marked by the upstart Dark Lord. Lucretia's children, in contrast, would never follow another, especially one so undeserving.

If only his grandchildren had been as manageable as his daughter.

He'd spent years blaming Walburga and her brother for what had become of the male heirs of the family. Now, after years of self-reflection and the liberal use of a pensieve that Melania somehow acquired, he blamed himself. Of course, he wasn't one for needless self-sacrifice, and he still blamed Walburga and Cygnus and Orion, though he highly doubted his son was overly involved in his children's lives, but he couldn't shy away from his own faults in the matter, not when it could mean the destruction of his House.

Arcturus had been so pleased when Sirius was born. He was a small thing, with wrinkly skin and wild limbs and little tufts of dark, downy hair. He was the future of the House. The first male child of the generation, and, if how explosive Walburga's magic had been when carrying him was to be taken into account, a soon-to-be powerful wizard. He'd taken the newborn into his arms and rocked him gently, Melania cooing softly down on him from over his shoulder, and felt something warm stirring in him. He hadn't been a good father, far from it in fact, but, he thought looking down at his grandson, he could be a good grandfather.

It was an idea that was doomed from the start, it seemed. Melania and him had been waiting in one of the parlors — the only one connected to Floo — for Pollux and Irma to arrive. They'd been in Liechtenstein attending a soirée hosted by one of Irma's students and looked appropriately extravagant when they stepped out of the hearth. He'd complimented Irma on her dress and hugged Pollux and said something, he can't remember exactly, about Sirius being the heir to the House.

And in response, Pollux had said, "Unless Cygnus has a son."

Those words, even now more than a decade later, made his blood boil. Arcturus was the Head of House, and Orion was his immediate heir, and Sirius was his. Pollux was the son of a second son, and would _never_ be in charge of the House, _Cygnus_ would _never_ be in charge, and if Cygnus ever managed to have a son — which he doubted — his son would _never_ be in charge. It was blasphemous for Pollux to even suggest such a thing.

From there matters escalated, and then escalated some more, and wands were drawn. The duel itself he hated to think of, shame bubbling in the pit of his stomach no matter how much he denied it, but the damage afterward was immense. At the time Orion and Walburga had been staying at the manor in Norfolk, often gifted to the heir of the House to live in before they were given the ancestral property as Head, but once Walburga had seen what became of the parlor she'd raged and screamed and little Sirius cried, still clenched in his mother's arms, and they were given leave to move into Grimmauld Place with Lycoris, who would surely enjoy the company.

Orion managed to calm his wife and return her to bed after a new place of living was secured, and Irma patched up Pollux as well as she could before dragging him to the mostly standing fireplace and Floo-ing away, offering only a glare in goodbye.

Melania managed to coax him away as well, deciding that it would be best to take a vacation for a few weeks — "Perhaps the château in France? Or somewhere warmer. Australia has a number of researchers I'd love to speak to, what do you say, darling?" — and, as regret weighed down on him, weeks turned to months and then years, until he finally returned four years later, roused to action by a howler his daughter sent him, letting him know that Lycoris was dying and, as he'd already missed the birth of three of his grandchildren, he was not allowed to let his sister die alone.

Pollux and him reconciled easily enough, but any hope of a relationship with his grandsons seemed lost. Sirius, who had once been so small and delicate and loud, was mirroring a young Cygnus too much for comfort, far too vindictive and sarcastic and brash. Not at all like he'd envisioned his House's heir. Regulus was too soft and spoiled and shy. Even Lucretia's twins, a boy and a girl, Edmund and Melladora, were unnervingly precocious and, without a doubt, going to become blood-traitors.

Time went on.

Sirius managed to do what he feared from Lucretia all those years ago, turning his back on their values and ways. Supporting and living with blood-traitors and mudbloods and, from what Regulus said when he'd given the boy a glass too many of wine, _half-breeds_. Thank Merlin for Cousin Dorea and all the information she brought him or he would have done something unbecoming of a Black — something rash and poorly thought out, all anger and force, no finesse.

Walburga and Orion were both frustrated by his continued concern for the boy they'd deemed as unfit and unworthy, especially since his daughter-in-law tried to disown him. He didn't have the strength of will to tell Walburga, still brimming with pride over her son's recent inauguration into the Death Eaters (which Arcturus had once remarked to Pollux over Ogden's finest was a truly _ridiculous_ name), that he'd never allow someone sworn to some upstart Dark Lord control his House.

He had a plan. He'd confine Walburga to Grimmauld Place, as his father had once done to Lycoris, and then convince his son who, seemingly, had become more weak-willed as the years dragged on, that it would be in the House's best interest to make Sirius heir once more. How he was to convince his wayward grandson he never figured out.

Very shortly after Regulus was marked, the war took a shift and _Pureblood's_ were being murdered by the Dark Lord, as well. They may have been blood-traitors, but it was just not the way things were done. If you want to take out a House you do it politically and socially. You _do not_ murder whole families worth of people. It was unheard of. And, Arcturus and Melania had decided shortly after reading about the third such occasion in the Prophet, if that was how this Dark Lord was handling dissent, it would be in their best interest to leave the island until things blew over.

Three years and there was no sign of an end to the affair. Three years and he had no idea what had become of his family. They did not receive news in the villa, or letters. They allowed one of their elves, Vally, to leave each night to discover the state of things in Britain, and gave her permission to interrupt them if the upstart Dark Lord was defeated.

Melania and him had both assumed, somewhat naively he reflected, that with Dumbledore opposing him, the war would be finished soon. Neither was fond of the man, but there was no denying his talent was great and his power nearly unchallenged. He could be dead for all Arcturus knew. Three years and Vally hadn't once interrupted them with good news, though, sometimes when he saw the elf cleaning, he swore she looked morose.

His hands shook with tremors and he felt a wave of horrible sadness crash over him. He wondered if it would be selfish to grieve for people who may have still lived. _Three years_. He was an old man, not a terribly old one, just shy of eighty-one, but an old man nonetheless. He was used to death now, but there was something in the not knowing that ate on him. It made him think, _perhaps I should have tried harder, been better_.

He thought of Lucretia, once a little girl with blonde hair that would darken as the years went on, and how she'd sit on his lap on the rare occasion he'd allow her to, and watch as he'd fill out form after form, in an endless string of bureaucratic showmanship. He thought of Orion lisping through his family history lessons when he'd lost his two front teeth and Melania refused to grow the adult ones in with magic. He thought of Sirius and Regulus both so small as children, filled with a sharpness they were too young to have, who treated him politely but distantly as if he were a stranger — which he very nearly was.

Arcturus braced himself on the balcony railing. Around him, there was only white sand and cerulean water, and it was so different from home he couldn't help but see their tenure at the villa as less of a vacation and more of a self-imposed imprisonment. He missed his family desperately, not only the ones he left behind, but the dream of a family he'd viewed when he first held Sirius, a rose-tinted fantasy that would never come to be, but haunted him even after all these years.

From behind him, he heard the familiar sound of Melania's kitten heels on the tiled floors for a moment before the sound stopped. She must have been waiting by the doorway, wondering how to interrupt his brooding. They'd both been easily worked up lately, the length of their time in Spain weighing on them heavily, but Melania was able to push her worries aside with far more ease than he was. He felt a familiar pang of fondness for his wife, wondering where he'd be if he married Hannalise Parkinson like his father had wanted.

Eventually, she said, "I was wondering where you ran off to. I was hoping you'd indulge me in a game of bridge."

His wife was terrible at bridge, and he laughed despite himself, "And deal with your anger the rest of the night?"

"Perhaps I will win this time." Melania sighed, coming up behind him and resting an arm across his back. "It's no matter what we do, truly, I only need a break from my research. Your Uncle Castor was brilliant but in an annoyingly nonlinear way. If I spend too long reading his journals, I find my patience drifting. In some ways, I believe him to be worse than Toulouse Lovegood, which I never thought would be possible."

"Us Black's are very good at the impossible." Arcturus took a deep breath, "A distraction would be most welcome, but not bridge. Something more juvenile, perhaps?"

She smiled. "Exploding snap? My, imagine what your father would say if he found out you were to play such an uncultured game."

"I would assume he'd have more pressing questions, as he's been dead for nearly thirty years. Though, I would hardly consider bridge the heart of refinement."

Melania hummed, before offering her arm to him."It would be a matter of perspective, I imagine. I seem to recall your mother playing the game religiously. Do you remember when I'd come to the manor when we were newly engaged, and the women in your family would whisk me away? Well, we'd knit and have tea and play bridge. It was a matter of pride, and, as the one who always lost, mine took quite a hit. I think my lack of talent also convinced your mother that I was too philistine and unsuited for her darling boy."

"The world of women is undeniably cutthroat," he said.

She looked amused. "Indeed."

They made their way to the main parlor leisurely, and Arcturus was happy to let the presence of his wife soothe away his melancholy. He was grateful that she didn't ask what had him in such a state. He had no desire to add to her worries, and even after all these years, he had trouble when it came to letting any softness show. He loved his wife, and she loved him, but it just was not proper for a Black to appear weak in any way.

Melania pulled him from his thoughts. "This is odd. Usually, those elves are better about getting things done. Have we been too permissive with them lately?"

He saw what she meant. The parlor, which should have been heated with a fire and lit up by candles, was dark and untouched. No game table was set up, and the drapes were still pulled firmly closed. Anger stirred within him. House-elves, he'd learned from a young age, had to be dealt with by a firm hand or they'd take advantage of any kindness, not that such crass creatures deserve anything more than what they were given. This, he glared out at the unattended room, was unacceptable.

"Elf!" he shouted.

There was no response.

"ELF!" he tried again.

There was still no response.

Melania had a pensive look on her face. "It is nighttime. Perhaps—"

Whatever his wife was considering was interrupted by the familiar _CRACK_ of apparation. Vally was a dreadful creature, with long, twisted fingers, creased ears, and a grimy, brown apron that she wore tied tightly around her shriveled form. For the first time years, the elf was showing an emotion other than dismay, and that fact alone is all that kept him from cursing her.

"Master! Mistress!" Vally cried in her high voice, jumping in place, "Vally is sorry for missing orders. Vally was in Britain!"

Melania was clasping her hands together tightly, her knuckles turning white. "What of Britain? Elf, what did you learn?"

"Vally was confused, Mistress. Vally appeared in a crowd of peoples and—"

Arcturus felt faint, but through ground teeth managed to snap, " _The Dark Lord_. Elf what happened to the Dark Lord?"

The elf shrunk into herself as much as possible, but still squeaked out, "He-who-must-not-be-named is _dead_! Vally heard it from many peoples. He-who-must-not-be-named was killed by little Harry Potter! He survived the killing curse, Masters! The Boy Who Lived saved us!"

Melania fell heavily against him, and he could scarcely breathe.

. . . . . . . . . .

Once Melania and him were back at Black Manor, safely nestled behind hundreds of years worth of wards, Arcturus felt like he was at peace for the first time since the news of Orion's death. The familiar pressure of the family magic, which was embedded in the very walls of the manor, draped itself over him like a well-loved cloak. As comforting as the magic was, there was a warning in it as well: _Do not fail your House, Arcturus Sirius Black._

He wouldn't. After they got into the rhythm of being home once again after nearly three years away, Melania and him would call a family Council. There he would broach the subject of making Sirius his direct heir, and how to handle Regulus seeing as his master was no more — killed by a child, his elf had said, which he could hardly bring himself to believe. Surely there was something else afoot.

For now, though, they had to get caught up on the goings of the world, both as it related to their family and otherwise. He did not trust Vally to give them a clear description of the years they were abroad, so instead, he ordered all the letters they'd missed and the past month's worth of Daily Prophets to be delivered to his study, where his wife and him would peruse them. He'd also requested tea and biscuits to be ready upon their entry, and a bottle of vintage, for when they encountered an unavoidable tragedy.

It was not going to be a pleasant experience, he predicted.

He was correct.

The first letter he opened was from Walburga.

It read:

 _October 18, 1979_

 _Arcturus S. Black,_

 _You and Melania have fled with your tails between your legs, from what Kreacher has told me. It's well deserved, I only hope the Dark Lord will take the time to find you — and my parents, they've ran as well. Traitors all of you. The Dark Lord is doing what you were all too scared of doing, ripping the filth of society out root and stem, and instead of welcoming it as you should, you damn him. I will welcome your death. You speak pretty words, but mean none of them. It's disgraceful. I am the only one left who truly cares for this House._

 _My son, my sweet, sweet son, has been missing since before my Orion's death. I fear he's done something rash, like talk to that blood-traitor he calls a brother. He must have known that would only be asking for death. Sirius has always been jealous of him. He would be more than willing to slit his throat, my poor, sweet boy._

 _I only tell you this, so you will know where the blame lies. Not only with the blood-traitor that plagues our family name, but with you. You made Regulus feel so unwanted in his own home. When you should have welcomed him as your heir, you shunned him — you would have rather had a stain on our House as heir, than my son. You killed him. You and your blood-traitor loving ways. I hope you rot for all eternity. My poor, poor boy. You killed him._

 _Walburga V. Black_

He set the letter down and poured himself a glass of wine. Walburga, it seemed, had well and truly lost it. She was lucky he was not one to kill a family member over written words. Even more worrying, however, was what she had to say about Regulus.

Melania set down the letter she was reading and raised an eyebrow at him. "We've been at it for less than ten minutes. Surely, it's too early to be drinking."

Wordlessly, he handed her the letter. He watched as her brow creased and her mouth pinched, and silently poured her a glass as well. She took it from him moments later, when she set the letter on the desk.

"Well," she said, after taking a long drink, "Walburga's absolutely batty now. I've always known she was a few lines short of an incantation, but that was almost frightening."

He nodded. "I'd always assumed she'd be like Lycoris, but she reminds me more of Elladora."

Melania snorted, something she'd never do in a more public setting. "Lycoris was willing to believe what anyone said and take it as gospel. She was also much too fond of the family to wish anyone harm. Walburga would have to be put under numerous personality charms and sedatives to be anywhere near that docile."

"I see that now," Arcturus agreed, "Elladora, from what I remember, was very near-deranged. Father put her in the east wing of the manor and warded it to bar her from exiting. I think she tried to bludgeon Belvina, but I'm not positive."

"I won't have her here," she said.

He sighed, "No, of course not. I still think keeping her confined to Grimmauld Place would be the best plan. At least then none of us would have to deal with her."

She hummed, "And what of Regulus? Is she to be believed?"

Arcturus let out a harsh laugh despite himself. "She thinks Sirius killed him. We both know that that boy would sooner find a way to cruciate himself than permanently hurt his brother. He always doted on him, perhaps more than he deserved." He sighed, "Especially near the end."

"You think it was the Dark Lord," Melania said, narrowing her eyes. "What reason would he have for killing him? He was always so eager, so _devout_."

Arcturus took another sip of wine. "Who could say why a Dark Lord does anything. Regulus, though, he was young when he'd joined, not even out of Hogwarts. Perhaps the realities of service weren't what he expected. Perhaps he'd found fault with what his master was doing once he started spilling true magical blood."

She set her glass down. "What a shame. He was always a sweet boy. He picked me flowers from Druella's garden once. Made them into a bouquet. He handed them to me, as serious as a ten-year-old can be, and told me they paled in comparison to my beauty, but he had tried his best. I thought Walburga was going to hex him... the look on her face."

That was as close to mourning as Melania would ever be, he knew. She missed the boy he was, and the boy he could have been before he'd made a stupid choice and ended up dead. Arcturus felt a pinch of something ugly clawing in his chest but refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he finished his glass of wine, reached out and squeezed his wife's hand, and grabbed another letter.

Time passed slowly after that. Walburga had sent eleven more letters over the years, each one more and more depraved, each one blaming him for Regulus's death. It grew trivial after the fourth, so he just burned the rest. There were statements from Gringotts bimonthly — which may have been dry, but they were to the point and toneless, both of which were welcome after dealing with Walburga's winding thoughts and endless rants.

They'd almost made their way through the pile when Melania reached out and grabbed his arm.

Her eyes were sad, and he was not expecting good news. "Arcturus, I'm sorry. Dorea contracted dragon pox this summer. She died early September."

He closed his eyes. Dorea was the youngest of all his cousins, nearly twenty years younger than him. He'd been terribly fond of her, and she'd grown up next to Lucretia, treating her as a younger sister. This hurt him far more than Regulus's death. He'd cared for Regulus, but he couldn't say he knew the boy. Dorea he had helped raise, he _loved_ that girl like she was one of his own children.

He would have to write to Lucretia, he thought dimly from under a cloud of grief, he'd have to invite her over for tea. She would be missing Dorea in the same way he was. And Pollux _and_ Cassiopeia — Merlin and Morgana be kind — he hated to think of how they would take their younger sister's death. Pollux, Cassiopeia, and Dorea had a special relationship, sometimes messy, but they would have burnt the world to the ground for each other. He realized faintly with no small amount of dread that Cassiopeia probably already knew, and when she was upset things tended to die.

"Do you want to take some time?"

"No," he snapped, harsher than he meant to be. "No, we've taken enough time as it is. Three years worth. We knew that things wouldn't be perfect when we returned, but we must carry on. There will be time for," he faltered, " _this_ later. Dorea would understand."

She nodded, moving away to sort through the Daily Prophet's. Arcturus gave himself a moment. His body felt heavy and, not for the first, he felt older than his years. His eyes stung, but he was too old, too unfeeling for tears. Dorea deserved more than some harsh old man who had barricaded his heart, mourning for her.

The warning from earlier rang in his head: _Do not fail your House, Arcturus Sirius Black._

For little Regulus, he wouldn't.

For Dorea, too kind and too clever and dead far too early, he wouldn't.

He steeled himself but picked up the notice from Gringotts he'd been reading. It seemed that before he died, Regulus had accessed the Family vault, removing several books he'd apparently taken an interest in. They'd never been returned, and Arcturus assumed they were still at Grimmauld Place.

He was curious as to why Regulus needed books from the vault. The library at Grimmauld Place, while moldy and dimly lit, was a treasure trove of knowledge, especially if one was interested in Dark magic. Elladora, the home's first owner, had guaranteed that. The books in the vault, by contrast, were mostly journals or grimoires, family magic and, at times, magic darker than he'd permit a member of his House to practice. It was slightly worrying, but, like most things he'd discovered, it was a thought for another time.

It took almost half an hour for their silence to be broken, and Arcturus had been hoping that perhaps fate was out of tragedies to curse his family with. That hope was shattered with a gasp from his wife. He feared that it would be especially terrible given her response. Maybe a bastard child of Orion's had appeared, demanding a place in the family and causing a media circus. Maybe Callidora had finally succeeded in murdering her sister. While she was a blood-traitor, Cedrella still somehow managed to be respected in society, so he sincerely hoped that his cousin did not commit sororicide — he had no idea how they'd manage to clean that up.

Melania noticed the look he was giving her and rolled her eyes. "It's not bad news, darling. It seems that elf wasn't lying after all. The Ministry is indeed crediting the Dark Lord's defeat to an act of magic performed by Harry Potter."

"I don't seem to recall ever meeting a Harry Potter?"

"No, you wouldn't." She shook her head in amazement. "He's the one-year-old child of James and Lily Potter. He defeated him last night. Apparently, he deflected a killing curse. The people are calling him the Boy Who Lived."

Arcturus scoffed, "Distasteful. I can't remember much about the Potter boy, but Sirius was friends with him. Who did he end up marrying?"

"A mudblood from Wolverhampton it seems."

He grabbed the edge of his desk. "A _Half-blood_ defeated the Dark Lord as a babe, and survived a killing curse? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Though, I suppose, his parents are confirming everything, enjoying their time in the limelight."

"They're both dead. It says that the Dark Lord arrived at their home on Halloween, and killed James Potter, before moving to the nursery to kill Lily Potter and the boy. He killed the mother, but when he tried to curse the boy the spell rebounded, and it hit him instead. Dumbledore apparently confirmed this in a public statement at the Ministry today." She looked at him in bewilderment. "What kind of ward scheme would they have had to use to rebound a killing curse? I've never heard of that happening."

"I don't think it ever has happened," he said absently.

The mudblood girl he didn't care much about, as years went on she'd become nothing but a footnote in the history books, but the boy, James Potter, his death was troubling. Sirius, he knew, cared deeply for the Potter boy. He'd known it since he'd been twelve and every other word he spoke was about _James_. At the time he'd thought nothing of it, accepting it as a childhood friendship. In fact, he'd been rather pleased with it, seeing as Sirius could have done much worse than the Potter boy when it came to his connections.

Then the years went on, and he was calling the boy his brother. While not positive, he's suspected that Walburga punished him severely for that. The Potter's may have been Pureblood's but they were blood-traitors through and through. All of them, bar Charlus and Dorea, constantly surrounded themselves in filth. He may have been allowed to be friends with him, but a closer bond was unbecoming.

More time passed, and eventually, Orion spent hardly any time at home with his wife and children, and Sirius, he assumed, was bearing most of his mother's increasing insanity — at least he was before he ran away. That had certainly caught everyone's attention, even the blood-traitors in the family, like Cedrella, who had the nerve to write a letter offering her condolences.

And where did the boy go in the end, when he had no blood relation to turn to?

To James Potter.

Now, the Potter boy was dead. His wife as well. Though Arcturus supposed his grandson must have also cared for the mudblood girl if she'd married his closest friend.

Sirius would be alone now. His self-proclaimed brother would become nothing more than memories, another casualty in the war. His true brother was also lost to him, though he might not have even been aware of Regulus's death. He might have other friends, he could hazily recall him mentioning other boys from his dormitory, but surely none of them were as important to him as the Potter boy was. Surely, he would see it would benefit him to join the family again.

Looking to his wife, he said, "Sirius must be in a state."

"He was always quite fond of the Potter's," she mused. "Wouldn't it be terribly remiss of us to forget to send our condolences?"

"Let it not be said that House Black ignored the sacrifice of those who brought our savior into this world," Arcturus said with no small amount of disdain.

Melania tittered slightly, before composing herself. She set the edition of the Prophet she'd been reading down, and picked up the last one. While he'd never admit it, he was growing tired — dealing with the news of his grandson and cousins death, Walburga's heightened instability, and the knowledge that a Half-blood babe defeated the Dark Lord was, unsurprisingly, exhausting — and he looked forward to sleeping in his own bed for the first time in three years, and pushing all of his problems aside to deal with in the morning.

His wife, he noticed with slight worry, was very close to ripping the copy of the Prophet she was holding. Her eyes had gone wide, and her lips were pinched as if she were holding in any number of expletives. She let out a shaky breath, looking at him with more anger than he'd seen her possess in nearly a decade. The last time she looked this furious was when his brother Regulus had died in a competitive dueling accident, and the Ministry refused to sentence his killer to Azkaban.

Now, if possible, she looked angrier.

"What is it?" he asked quietly as if she were a frightened animal.

To answer, she held the newspaper out, so that he could read what it said. It was a special evening edition of the Prophet, he noticed, taking in the reverse coloring. Then he read the headline — "YOU-KNOW-WHO'S RIGHT HAND MAN IN AZKABAN" — which he could scarcely believe. Because below the headline, there was a photograph of "You-Know-Who's Right Hand Man."

And Arcturus could only stare in incomprehension at the news article, understanding his wife's anger with much more clarity.

Because the man in the photograph, the man who was supposedly You-Know-Who's Right Hand Man, was Sirius.

. . . . . . . . . .

"I'm going to rip that man's throat out," Melania promised, pacing in front of the grandest fireplace in Black Manor, a giant structure made out of marble and obsidian with a portrait of Arcturus' Aunt Misopinoa adorning the space above the mantle.

Arcturus made a soft hum to let her know he was listening but didn't look up from the wrinkled photograph of his grandson. Sirius looked deranged, laughing mindlessly with tears streaming down his faces, as he sat in what looked like a crater. In the left corner of the image, partially obscured by smoke, he could make out a pair of feet sticking out, unmoving.

"Condemning _my_ grandson to Azkaban," she continued. "Condemning the heir to House Black to that, that _dreadfort_. Of all the over-reach I've seen the Ministry allow over the years, this has to be the most abominable."

"Feed him to the crows!" Misopinoa cried, looking delighted.

His wife hadn't slept last night, instead choosing to read all she could about their wayward grandson's exploits in the years they were abroad, and he had slept fitfully, haunted by disembodied voices and Dorea, pale as snow until she opened her eyes and stained the dream red, screaming at him for abandoning her. Melania had shaken him awake as soon as the first pitiful strands of daylight broke nighttime, and had been ranting about the Ministry and Dumbledore ever since.

"There was no trial," she had said as soon as his eyes opened, "No evidence."

Arcturus set the newspaper down, incinerating it with a sweep of his hand. He couldn't stand to look at it. The family magic was coiling itself tightly around his neck, hanging around him like a noose. The warning from last night ringing loud and clear. He would not fail his House. He would not fail Sirius.

Melania still ranted, "That Barty Crouch was always a rotten boy. To think that a woman from this House raised him. And the Minister! Who does she think she is to send Purebloods off to Azkaban without a trial — all these liberals in office would have us return to the days of Spencer-Moon's administration. Or worse, Nobby Leach's!"

Misopinoa added, unhelpfully from her frame, "Mudblood and half-breed lovers! All of them should be thrown in a vat and boiled! Crusade! CRUSADE!"

They both ignored her, too used to the ravings of long dead and half-mad family portraits to really pay them any mind. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking, and resisted the urge to call an elf to ask for a drink. It was barely sunrise, and he was sure the upcoming days would give him more than enough reasons to indulge his vices. Thinking about Sirius made him feel incredibly old, in a hopeless and helpless way he'd rarely, if ever, experienced.

The thought of Azkaban was enough to make him shudder. He'd been to the prison only once in his lifetime, for only a few short hours, to visit his Uncle Cygnus when he'd been incarcerated for the attempted poisoning of the Minister. He hadn't been anywhere near the dementors, waiting in the sparse and dreary visitors area, but their presence left a mark everywhere on the island, not just in the sections they were allowed. The energy was heavy and dismal, leaving a feeling of severe hopelessness that only a hot bath and half a bottle of wine was able to wash away when he'd left.

And his grandson, _his heir,_ had been there for days now, locked in a high-security cell where no human guards ventured. His only company was the dementors that would feed on his misery and despair, and the sounds the other prisoners that surrounded him made. Someone would pay for this.

He folded his hands together, anxious as he waited for whoever Melania had called — she hadn't deemed to tell him, far to embroiled with her own anger — and asked, "Did none of his friends speak out about this? The other members of that gang he was a part of? Surely they _know_ …"

Melania's hands bunched into her trousers, wrinkling the wool. "No one has spoken out about this _injustice_. None of his classmates, none of Dumbledore's gang, not even Dumbledore himself has mentioned Sirius, and he's been in and out of the Ministry since Halloween. That's as clear as any damnation has to be to the public."

Across the room, a vase exploded.

"No one's said anything?"

His wife smiled, but it was little more than a cruel twist of her lips. "Oh, people have had plenty to say. About the inevitability, the warning signs. They say that Sirius was always, clearly rotten to the core, just look at his family they say."

Another vase exploded.

Misopina made a noise that was a cross between a wail and a snarl. "Boil them!"

Arcturus closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.

"It seems all that _loyalty_ and _goodness_ he'd rant about during Christmas dinners was a construct of his imagination. They let him go to Azkaban without a trail, they damn him in the Prophet, and they say _he's_ the rotten one." Melania shook slightly and he wasn't sure if it was the exhaustion or grief catching up with her. "I'm going to turn their organs to rot and put maggots in their eyes. I'm going to destroy all of them. We've been lenient for far too long. The world may be changing, but it won't forget House Black."

Grief it seemed. When she was at her saddest, she was at her most vicious.

Before he could do or say anything to ease her vengeance, the fireplace roared to life with green flames, a quick swirl of color, before they receded back into nothing, residual ash falling in limp piles to the bottom of the hearth. For a moment Arcturus could only blink, not sure exactly if his eyes were working properly, because glowering out at him in a silk robe and pointed hat, which was catching ash around the rim, was his daughter — the daughter he hadn't spoken to outside of mandatory family gatherings in many, _many_ years.

Lucretia was aging into a beautiful woman. Her dark hair showed no sign of greying, while her eyes and mouth had a few lines beginning to edge around them. Unlike many of the women in the family, she had a kind disposition, which reflected in her look, saving her from the scowls and pinched lips of many Black's past. And when her eyes landed on Melania, and she smiled, wide and honest, his heart stuttered for a moment, because that was Dorea's smile.

"Mother it's good to see you again." Lucretia stepped out the fireplace, taking her hat off and turning her gaze onto him. "Father you've gotten tan. I suppose an extended vacation abroad would do that to you, but I thought cowardice might subterfuge beauty eventually."

His wife spoke up before he could reply. "Do you know why I asked for you?"

Lucretia tilted her head, her hair fanning out behind her, and narrowed her eyes. "I would never presume to guess what you would consider important."

Usually, such a comment would get a small titter from his wife, who had always indulged their daughter's precocious nature, but now Melania only glared. "What I consider important? I consider the survival of our House _important_. Sit down, Lucretia."

His daughter did as she was told, looking mildly put-upon as she settled into the armchair beside him. She kept her silence, looking over both of them in contemplation as she tried to work out whatever trap they had sprung for her.

Melania resumed her pacing. "As you've doubtless heard, Sirius is in Azkaban."

She nodded in acknowledgment. "The news was… _troubling_."

"More troubling than his imprisonment is the absence of his trial," Melania continued, "Dumbledore and his Ministry lackeys and that gang of his have buried him so thoroughly under rumors and allegations and circumstantial evidence that they don't believe anyone would think to look deeper. They're ineptitude and arrogance knows no bounds."

Lucretia blinked. "He never had a trial?"

"There are no reports of one. You'd think that being the Dark Lord's Right Hand would warrant a look at his case, but the Ministry doesn't seem to think so."

Lucretia leaned back in her seat, a look of horror etching across her face. She was always very fond of her nephews, Arcturus recalled. Unlike Cygnus and Druella who always sneered at the attention of children, his daughter had sought it out. She'd hunt for salamanders in the gardens with Sirius and Regulus, despite Walburga's complaints that it was too plebeian an activity, and when Sirius was fifteen and orchestrating himself from everyone in the family she alone would swoop down and seek his company out.

Arcturus took a deep breath, "Sirius is the heir to House Black. The survival of our House rests on his shoulders, and he is locked in Azkaban for crimes he was never tried for. The world has forgotten the power of House Black, and that cannot stand. The issue, however, is how we are to get Sirius out of Azkaban."

"That's why I've called for you," Melania said, looking towards Lucretia. "You were trained in law. And, more importantly, you are family. What can we do?"

His daughter was silent for a long moment. "The most obvious route would be to bring awareness to the Ministry's illegal imprisonment of him. It would certainly rouse public interest, and cast doubt upon the case and the current administration." She sighed, "But _if_ Sirius really did commit those crimes, and was tried he may end up worse off. There's also the risk that the Ministry itself would interfere with the proceedings, to help clear up their own mistakes at the expense of Sirius."

Melania ground her teeth. "Wonderful."

"So then there's nothing we can do for him." Arcturus sat back heavily.

"There may be a second option," Lucretia said. "I would have to look more closely into the case, and see if there are any loopholes we could exploit, but, assuming that there are none, there is a chance I could use a policy from the time before Azkaban."

"What do you mean?"

She clicked her tongue nervously, a habit she had since she was a girl, and said, "Independently, I've been working with a few people from my practice to review some of the obsolete, archaic, and, occasionally, barbaric laws that are still on the books despite their disuse. There's one I can remember that was initiated in the fourteen-hundreds by the Wizard's Council that transferred to the Ministry once it was established.

"Essentially, it was used by prominent families to give the Council thirty days of leeway between an imprisonment and a trial. In the case of Heads of Houses and their heirs, if they were imprisoned, but not tried in those thirty days, then the case would be dissolved, the charges dropped, and the imprisoned would be released from jail."

Melania nodded slowly, before asking, "Why hasn't this been used more? There are so many people I know that would just jump at such an opportunity."

Lucretia pursed her lips. "When Azkaban was first utilized as a prison, and not as a fortress, the Ministry was very careful in trying suspects quickly. No one was sent to Azkaban for holding until the 20's, with Grindelwald's rise, and even then it was only in cases where guilt was ensured. I don't think there's been much use for the law. Until Sirius, that is, and with Sirius, it's only an option because of Ministry oversight."

"But you could use this to get him out?" his wife pressed, clenching her hands tightly in front of her.

"If the Ministry doesn't notice or rectify their mistake, then yes, I'm fairly certain I could use it with enough backing from prominent sponsors. Minister Bagnold will not take kindly to this."

Arcturus felt anger curl desperately through him. "I think she will find that House Black does not take kindly to the unjust imprisonment of their heir."

"And," Melania added, "If she tries to do anything to keep Sirius in that dreadfort, I will find a way to rot her body from the inside out."

From the wall, Misopina cackled, "Feed her liver to the crows!"

Lucretia sighed, "Sweet Nimueh. And you two wonder why I don't visit." She stood, smoothing down her dress, and adjusting the brim of her pointed hat before she put it back on. "Before you say anything else about torture, I should leave. I'll send you owl either this evening or tomorrow morning about the course of action."

Arcturus stood too, as his daughter made her way to the fireplace. "Your doing us a great service, Lucretia. Thank you."

She reached into the urn that held their Floo powder. "I'm not doing this for you. Sirius is more than just the heir to this House. He's my only remaining nephew." She paused, before turning to look at him, and he was startled by the intensity of her gaze, so reminiscent of Dorea's. "And if your schemes to reestablish this House harm him in any way you'll wish that you never returned home."

Unbidden — and perhaps inappropriately, given she was threatening him — he felt a flash of affection for his daughter. She may be a Prewett now, but her sharpness was just like his, just like Dorea's and Cassiopeia's and Orion's and Sirius'.

As she stepped into the hearth, Melania smiled. "Darling, don't worry about sending any owls. I expect we'll see you back here in two days time."

"And why is that?" his daughter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We'll be holding a Council for the first time in a decade. I can't imagine you want to miss that."

Lucretia nodded slowly, her eyes wide. " _Yes…_ Of course, I'll be in attendance." Then she dropped the powder from her hand, and cried out, "Elspeth's Cottage!" before disappearing in a flurry of green flames.

As the ashes started to settle, Arcturus turned towards his wife, "I don't think I've seen her lost for words since she was a fourth year. What made you decide to hold a Council so soon?"

Melania was still smiling, and like all her smiles today it promised nothing good. "The family has become negligent. I have questions that I expect to get answers for. And, now more than ever, we must present a united front. The world has grown complacent in how they regard us. It's time that changed, don't you think?"

* * *

I just have two last notes: 1) I don't have a beta reader so any mistakes are my own. 2) I'm not sure how long I'll take between updates, but I'm on winter break right now so maybe ( _just maybe_ ) I'll be able to update again in the next two weeks.

Feedback is always appreciated!


	2. family jewels

_November 3, 1981_

The morning started with a fight. Or, Narcissa supposed, swirling her tea around with a flick of her pinky, an argument. Tensions in Malfoy Manor had been rising since Draco's birthday in June, and the recent crash in job security for Lucius only made things more strained. If the situation she found herself in wasn't so precarious, she might have been smug that her warnings to her husband had been correct.

She'd been telling him for years that the Dark Lord should be kept at arm's length, that he needn't join in the madness of the crusade outright no matter what sickly Abraxas Malfoy has said, that Draco, his son, _their son_ , deserved to be kept safe. He deserved a chance to be raised away from chaos and bloodshed and men playing at being god's — men she knew would never once hesitate if it came to hurting him. The Dark Lord would have crushed Draco underfoot if he thought it would help him in his quest for power.

Lucius never listened.

He put on a good act. He'd nod dutifully, respond carefully, and press chaste kisses down on her cheeks, but he'd never taken her words to heart. Instead, he'd don black robes and a grotesque mask, and he'd disappear to destroy whatever he was ordered to destroy. He'd come home sometimes smelling like smoke, sometimes like rot, or, on the worst days, like death. His magic, in her opinion, suffered the most. It was always manic after a mission; all twisted up and dreadful and clingy.

How many days had she been forced to hear about the strength and greatness of the Dark Lord? How many galas did she have to suffer through, enduring the creeping weight of the Dark Lord's eyes on her, searching her head for any inclination of betrayal? How many times did her husband say to her, breathless, in awe, and, sometimes, a little drunk: "The taste he gives us of his power is only a drop of what he can actually do. He's like Apollo reborn."

Perhaps he was like Apollo. He was, after all, bright, alluring. He drew all of them, all of his precious, renewable Death Eaters, to his side like moths to an open flame. The threat of danger was always humming in the air, but never a foreseeable reality. And now — _now_ , after the extraordinary, awe-inspiring, _god-like_ Dark Lord was dead, killed by a Half-blood baby — Lucius and his contemporaries were dropping from the sky, repeating the mistakes of Icarus.

Sighing, she took a sip of her tea, before wrinkling her nose. She hated bergamot.

Today would mark the third day in a row her husband had hurried off to the Ministry, rising with the sun and vanishing in a violent whorl of Floo-powder. Today also marked the third day she'd tried to get answers out of him, and the third day that her questions resulted in a hushed argument in the foyer.

Narcissa had asked, smoothing a hand over Lucius fine robes, "Will you tell me your plans, darling? You can't imagine how worried I am all day not knowing what's happening." She made sure to look away from him when she added, "Or what will happen."

He hadn't taken her gentle insinuation well. "I'm not going to _let_ anything happen. You are well aware of how delicate the situation we've been thrown into is. My apologies for not running everything I do by you first, but I hardly have any time to waste, and I would assume that you, of all people, would trust me enough to get us out of this."

"Oh darling, I do trust you. I just want to help. Perhaps I could ease your workload, or contact some assets, or, well, _anything_." Before she could stop herself, the tender part of her, the part that still remembered how giddy she'd been to marry the handsome and gentle Malfoy heir, burst forward along with her doubts. "Lucius, you can't tell me you actually believe you'll be able to dig yourself out of this on your own. Dumbledore is consolidating power, the Wizengamot is in chaos, and too many people suspect you already. It would be easy for someone to implicate you or use information about you to reduce their sentence — Parkinson would in a heartbeat, or Montague, he's always hated you. Please, let me do something—"

He interrupted her. "I," he said, his eyes glinting, "am going to leave for the Ministry. By the time I return this evening, I hope such... _insolent_ thoughts of yours are dealt with."

And then he was off.

He was nervous, she'd realized moments after he vanished. He was nervous and that made her pause. Narcissa, in all the years that she'd been married to Lucius, could not remember a time he'd ever been nervous.

When Moody's Aurors were searching through every nook and cranny in the Manor, he only smiled and offered them refreshments when the hunt was over and nothing was found. When Abraxas had sat them down and explained that his mother, Delphine, suffered from a hereditary madness and that it could very easily pass onto him, Lucius hadn't blinked. Instead, he folded his hands neatly and told his father, "I would take this opportunity to point out that I'm still of sounder mind than you are."

But now with the Dark Lord's defeat, he was nervous. He hadn't planned for what to do in such a situation. After all, the Dark Lord was practically a god among men, what chance was there that he would ever lose power?

Apparently, they hadn't planned for toddlers to have any grave impact on world domination. Narcissa could hardly stop herself from laughing at how absurd her life was. Her husband was probably going to be arrested for following a madman. She was probably, at the very least, going to be investigated to see if she had a part in any of his actions, and her son would be at the mercy of the Ministry — or worse, her sister.

Bellatrix had, thankfully, disappeared after the news of the Dark Lord's defeat. Had her sister decided to stay at the Manor, Narcissa was certain she'd somehow be embroiled in a half-mad revenge scheme, and, really, that was the last thing anyone needed. She loved her sister, of course, but as the years went on, Bellatrix had only become more unstable, more vicious, more devotional, and Narcissa's sometimes transparent loyalty to the Dark Lord had only created rifts between them.

Privately, she blamed Rodolphus for who her sister had become. He freed her from the restrictions Arcturus had kept her under when she was still a member of the House, and let her mania run unchecked. When Rodolphus first attended a Death Eater meeting, Bellatrix attended at his side. And when the Dark Lord promised a world remade in blood, her sister promptly dedicated herself to him. Rodolphus may have offered her freedom to torture and kill and experiment as she pleased, but the Dark Lord offered her real power and, to Bellatrix, as obsessive as she was, someone deserving of her affections.

Her sister was a frightening creature now. She was nearly unrecognizable from the girl who had let her stand on her toes to teach her to waltz and smuggled sugar quills around their parents to give her when she was sick. Now when she thought of Bellatrix she remembered the harsh smile she'd worn when she held Draco for the first time, she remembered how her long nails ran across her son's face like a taunt, and she remembered, with dread, what her sister had said.

"He's perfect, Cissy. And so clearly more Black than Malfoy. The wittle dragon here will be strong in his service to the Dark Lord. Wittle, itty-bitty dragons are fierce and devoted to their Masters — _oh, yes they are_ ," Bellatrix had sung, half to her and half to Draco, sleeping in her arms.

After that particular incident, Narcissa had gone out of her way to avoid her sister. Draco was too young and too good to be involved in any of the Dark Lord's schemes. If she had it her way he'd never be in the same house as him, let alone close enough to gain any sort of attention.

Of course, now amidst the uncertainty that had befallen her family, she wished Bellatrix the best in avoiding the Ministry, but if they decided to go after her there was very little she could do to help. It made her twitch in anxiety to think about what would become of her headstrong sister (and Lucius — but, as it was, she had much more faith in her husband managing to escape persecution than Bellatrix. She could be rather impulsive at times).

Crouch was on a warpath. Already he'd managed to arrest Sirius, throwing him into Azkaban before anyone could take notice. She tried not to think of her younger cousin often, but she would never have taken him for a Death Eater or the Dark Lord's right hand, especially considering what happened in May. Lucius only twitched when she brought it up, refusing to answer her questions and leaving her even more curious as to her cousin's status.

Sirius had always deplored anything to do with blood purity and preferred to befriend mudbloods and half-breeds over proper witches and wizards. If he was a Death Eater than she'd have to give him credit for being a better actor than anyone could have expected. If he wasn't — _well_ , then she'd have a problem, and Crouch would have a bigger one.

It was odd to think that the only person in her family that would without a doubt escape the current turmoil in the magical world was Andromeda. Her mudblood loving, blood traitor sister would be able to continue living in peace and, while that fact alone should fill her with anger, she couldn't help but feel proud despite herself. Not about Andromeda's choices, those were absolutely reprehensible, but that her sister had somehow managed to do what Narcissa wanted to do for the duration of the war. She kept her head down and her family safe. It was applaudable, enviable.

But since she refused to make empathy for blood traitors a habit, she brushed all thoughts of her estranged sister away.

She sighed and took another sip of her tea. Inexplicably, she found herself feeling _nostalgic_. She missed the early days of her and Lucius's marriage, when they'd dance and take vacations for no reason whatsoever and Bellatrix was happy — or as close to happy as her sister could be without bloodshed — and everything was rose-tinted and the world seemed to spread forward endlessly, often times going out of its way to cater to their needs. Of course, in those days Draco hadn't even been a thought in her mind, and she would trade a million halcyon days just to ensure his happiness.

He was being entertained by his governess for the time being. Narcissa didn't want to risk startling him if the Ministry sent people to the Manor and, in a worst-case scenario, if she was taken away for questioning the governess, a young, plucky thing named Emeraude, would spirit him away to her Grandmother Irma in Germany. Lucius, naturally, had no idea. If he did, she could already imagine the condescending tone he'd take up with her, telling her that he had " _everything under control_ " and that she " _needn't worry about matters that will right themselves_ given _the proper attention_." Both were things he'd already spat at her over the last few days.

She loved her husband, even if she was far from pleased with his conduct at the moment, but he was slowly digging himself into a hole that she would bury him in if he wasn't careful. She wasn't some airheaded trophy wife like Priscilla Parkinson and she certainly wasn't going to run to the DMLE like Anita Higgs had. She would always stay and protect their interests, even if Lucius seemed to think she was too feeble-minded to do so.

Narcissa was, after all, a Black before she was a Malfoy, and very proud of the fact. If her husband continued to overlook her capabilities then she would have to do something very unpleasant and certainly improper. She could deny their similarities all she wanted, but Bellatrix was still her sister, and, for all their differences, they were more alike than she really wanted to admit.

But that was neither here nor there. Lucius was just as anxious as she was, and getting worked up about his actions wouldn't solve anything. When this situation passed — she refused to get caught on the very possible chance that they were dealing with an _if_ and not a when — and things settled again, Lucius would return to himself. On the very slim chance he didn't, then she'd do something about it. For now, she just had to breathe. Doing nothing but worrying for days on end had, unsurprisingly, done nothing kind for her. Not worrying, however, was easier said than done.

Before she could spiral any farther in her thoughts, a familiar tapping filled the sitting room. She had an owl. For a moment, everything was lost behind the roar in her ears and the anxiety she felt clawing its way up her throat. Then, with a start, she recognized the bird as one from Black Manor's owlery. She hadn't known that Arcturus and Melania returned home.

With a nervous flick of her wrist, the window unbolted and the owl flew inside, dropping the letter next to her before flying away just as quickly as he'd come. The parchment was soft, her name was written in emerald ink across the envelope, and knowing Melania, she'd probably laced her ink with a poison of some sort.

The letter itself was addressed solely to her, which was a relief. Her family were not the fondest of Lucius, and letters addressed to the pair of them were, more often than not, filled with contempt and complaints and, on occasion, curses.

Oh, how she'd missed her family.

Resigned, she read:

 _Dearest Narcissa,_

 _While Arcturus and I were abroad we missed many things. I recently became aware that you gave birth to a healthy boy and that you honored him with a name from our House. There is no way to overstate my pride in you, and I'm sure that Pollux and Irma will express the same when they see you again. With that said, Arcturus and I wish to offer our congratulations. Your relationship with Lord Malfoy has always, unfortunately, been a point of contention in the House, but it is my hope that with the recent turn in your husband's politics that a sort of reconciliation could be reached._

 _Beyond any platitudes I can offer, I only wish to remind you that before you are Lady Malfoy, you are Narcissa Black of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Over the past decades, our families power has diminished and our reputation has been varnished, and I'm sure you would agree that with such a family as ours, that is one of the greatest travesties to befall our society in recent years._

 _With that in mind, Arcturus and I would also like to humbly extend an invitation to you, and you alone, to join us in Black Manor later this afternoon to participate in a family Council._

 _With the greatest fondness,_

 _Toujours Pur_

 _Melania M. Black_

She blinked. Then blinked again, before rereading the letter to ensure she hadn't misread it. The Lady Black had always been aggressive, but this letter implied a lot of things that went beyond plain aggression. There were implications here about greater things. Implications about more power, about more prestige, about a family _revival_.

For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, Narcissa found herself smiling.

. . . . . . . . . .

Black Manor had always been a grand and imposing place. She hadn't visited often as a child, just enough to have a skin-deep familiarity with it, but even now, years later, its visage made her hesitate. She brushed it off. After all, she was a Black first and foremost and had no reason to worry — at least, that's what she told herself.

She'd just made it up the front steps, and was about to knock on the door, when a loud voice called out from behind her, "Oh, could it be our precious daisy? Back from your shanty with those Malfoy's? _Tck_. Abraxas was always a little worm. You know, he always fancied himself blondes. I've always said that that man was half in love with himself, but to marry girls who could pass as his twin… and so young. Harfang. _Harfang_ , look at her. Too young to be withering away with that Malfoy. What her father was thinking, I'll never understand. He was nearly as brainless as your family."

Callidora Longbottom certainly was a whirlwind of a witch. For such a slight woman, she had more presence than half of the girls she had tea with could ever muster. Narcissa had always been impressed by her ability to say so much without breathing. Her mother not so much, but that was most likely because she was on the opposite end of many of Callidora rants. Now, she was starting to understand her mother's frustration.

Fixing a smile on her face, and graciously ignoring the slight towards her husband's family, she said, "Auntie, it's so good to see you again. I haven't heard any news of you since the Longbottom's announced their heir. Unfortunately, you seem to have mixed up my husband with his father. I'm married to Lucius, not Abraxas."

" _Bah_. They're all identical, by any means." Callidora said, looking her up and down, which was ridiculous as Narcissa was half a head taller than her.

Harfang had the decency to look embarrassed by his wife's behavior. "May many good tidings befall your family," he said with a nod, not seeming to mean it one bit. "Pardon me, my dear, but I'm forgetting your name… Andromeda, was it?"

"Oh, you hopeless buffoon." Her aunt hissed, " _Andromeda_ was the one who ran off and eloped with that Muggle-born boy. Utterly shameful. Elopements are such a farce. She should have had the goodwill to at least invite those of us who tolerated her. But no, she had to follow in the footsteps of _Cedrella_. Truly, truly unacceptable." She gestured towards her, "This is Narcissa. She may have married a Malfoy but she had the decency to do it publically. Very brave thing to do, girl. You have strength that your sister will never know."

Narcissa's smile tightened.

Harfang glowered. "Well, how am I supposed to remember that! You have so many family members I have half a mind to carry around a family tree!"

"You'd be down to a quarter of a mind, in that case, darling. I'll advise you to suck it up. I had no problems cohabitating with your family for years. And Merlin knows that I was deeply, deeply tested through it all. I, however, pulled through."

" _Calli_ , you hardly knew anyone's names. You either gave them nicknames or just pointed at them like they were house elves."

Her aunt sniffed. "Nicknames are a sign of affection. I would have thought you'd have cherished the sign that I was opening up to your dreadful relations."

"Perhaps I would have cherished it if—"

He was interrupted by a very pointed cough from the doorway. Narcissa pivoted around, cursing herself for getting caught up in the spat, and found Melania standing behind them looking cross. The Lady Black was, perhaps, even more elegant than she remembered; dignified, decorous, cold. She had always been beautiful, but now with the forbidding air about her, there was a terrible edge to it. Her hair was still a glossy copper, somewhat muted with her age, and her posture was just as rigid, but the warmth that once filled her pale eyes was gone.

Glaring at them, she said, "If you all are finished behaving like muggles, I would be inclined to let you in."

Narcissa immediately dipped into a small curtsy, as was proper when reintroducing oneself to a Head of House after such a long time apart, and murmured, "Lady Black." Behind her Harfang and Callidora were undoubtedly following the same tradition.

"Yes, yes, you all have manners." Melania seemed to narrow in on Callidora as she said this, but continued nevertheless. "Please come in, and follow me. There's much we need to discuss."

She straightened immediately, the hours of lessons drilled into her head moving her along like a marionette. Behind her, she could barely make out what Callidora muttered under her breath — something crude about where Melania's wand was — but the hiss that escaped her after Harfang presumably elbowed her was loud enough to make the already testy witch leading them into her house stop and glare back at them.

The Manor itself was warm but airy. There was no sign of the dust that had to have accumulated while the Lord and Lady were away. The oddities that lined the hallways were shining from where they sat on ebony tables, waiting to be looked at. A few of them, like the ancient golden astrolabe and the winking circlet of stars, caught Narcissa's attention, but the pace Melania set kept her from studying them any further. It was probably for the best, as the antiquities kept by the House of Black were more often than not chosen for their malevolence rather than their beauty.

Above the oddities, the walls were lined with portraits, dozens of them all looking at their little group as they walked. Growing up, Narcissa remembered that her distant, long-dead relatives would usually be out of their frames or sleeping, seeming to have better things to do than watch as her and her sisters ran throughout their ancestral home, trying to find ways to prank their mother. The scrutiny they watched her with now would have been more nerve-wracking if she hadn't been so used to the Dark Lord picking her thoughts from her head, looking for even the barest hint of dissent so that he could punish her.

Melania stopped suddenly outside of a large, arched door without a handle. For anyone outside of the family it would have been unassuming, just another example of the strangeness of the Black's. For Narcissa, however, it was like walking into a Thunderbird. As soon as she neared the door she felt electric, her magic was buzzing, and the family magic seemed to loop around her, cocooning her and reassuring her that she was a Black, that she would always be a Black. The magic left her after a moment, tendrils of it still swirling around her, and she wondered if this is what Lucius felt with the Dark Lord: power and ecstasy and a withdrawal that came far too quickly.

"You three aren't the last to arrive. That honor, unfortunately, belongs to my daughter," Melania said, after giving the three of them a moment to collect themselves. "For years you've all acted without any sense of your House. For the sake of the Council, please pull yourselves together."

Callidora huffed, as Melania looked pointedly at her, but said nothing.

Placing her hand on the odd stone door, the Lady Black muttered something under her breath — a string of Latin that, while meaningless to Narcissa, must have served as a powerful charm since the door melted away into nothing as she spoke. Behind the unobscured archway was a round stone table that seated many familiar faces. The family magic squeezed around her again, before dissipating, moving into the room and wrapping around a graying, weathered old man. If she wasn't mistaken it was Arcturus, the current Lord Black.

Melania glared around at them again, but this time there was something softer about her face. An old, easily called upon kindness, that she was working very hard on concealing. "Well, don't dally now. In you go."

Narcissa stepped through first.

She wasn't sure if she was supposed to greet Arcturus first or if she was to just sit down and await the start of the Council, whatever that entailed, but the choice was taken from her when her grandmother called from where she was sitting, "Come here, dear," while patting the stone seat next to her.

Irma always had a soft spot for her. She would seek out her company over her sisters and gift her Crabbe family heirlooms that probably should have gone to Bellatrix, and, most importantly, while she was growing up her grandmother was kind, always willing to answer her questions however trivial or foolish. When the war heated up, and everyone was initially going into hiding, her grandmother stopped by Malfoy Manor for tea and invited Narcissa to leave Britain with her and grandfather. It was a sweet offer, but one she had to refuse.

As she settled into her spot at the table, glad to no longer be the center of everyone's attention, Callidora strode into the room dragging Harfang along by the arm. The Longbottom's moved loudly around the table, before dropping into seats across from Arcturus. Neither seemed to think it was much of an honor.

"Arcturus it's good to see you back with us," Callidora said, not looking at a bit sincere. "Cutting your hair was a wise choice. If you left it as long as it was before you left, you would have looked like Phineas Nigellus, and, really, no one would want that."

Irma gave a titter at that, Arcturus and her always had some sort of feud between them, and Melania's heels clicked against the tiled floors ominously as she moved to her own seat. Arcturus only raised a disinterested eyebrow at her. "Cousin. How charming it is to see you again. Why, exactly, are you here?"

"That wife of yours wrote to me. Seems she's finally good for something, _hm_. I remember how angry you were when your betrothal to that tart of a girl was broken. What was her name again? Evaline? Corrianna? I suppose it doesn't matter. Imagine my surprise, when I got an owl from Melania of all people, informing me about the Council. Well, I knew it had to be important for her to send me a letter, so here I am, taking precious time out of my day for you."

Grabbing Melania's hand, probably to keep her from drawing her wand, Arcturus took a deep breath. "It's a wonder you were interested in the Council at all considering we're to discuss current events, and you always seem to be stuck in the past." Callidora hissed, but he continued as if he hadn't heard. "In any event, the Council is for Black's only. An exception was made for you, as you were once a Black, but your husband has never been part of this family."

Harfang looked decidedly uncomfortable under Arcturus' stare and twitched like he planned on standing, but Callidora clutched at his arm to keep him in place. "The letter sweet Melania sent was addressed to both me and my husband. More importantly, Harfang has been privy to every action of this family since we were married and has proven himself as an invaluable ally to House Black. He's not going to hurt the family for his own self-gain, and you know that. He's a Longbottom, not a Malfoy."

Narcissa didn't twitch at the insult. The family had always disparaged her father's choice of setting her up with Lucius and she doubted that they would ever approve of her husband. Her grandmother, ever her defender, called down the table on her behalf, scowling at Callidora. "If you haven't forgotten, we have a Malfoy in our company now!"

"All the more reason to send her away," her aunt Cassiopeia said, her long nails clicking against the table.

"Narcissa is a Black first and foremost," Melania interrupted. "Lucius wasn't invited due to his ties to the Dark Lord, not because some of us disprove of the Malfoy family."

Callidora sniffed, "Some of us? I can't think of anyone in their right mind who approves of the Malfoy family. A bunch of no good, spineless—"

"That's enough!" Irma said, her voice raising. "Narcissa has done more for this family the past few years than anyone else here has. And she's done it as a Malfoy!"

Cassiopeia made an angry noise.

"Yes, yes, you've done quite a lot as well," Irma acquiesced. "I would just like some acknowledgment for my granddaughter. The girl even named her son for our House. Surely, that deserves some merit. Think Callidora, the Malfoy heir shall be more Black than Malfoy."

Truthfully, Narcissa didn't have any ulterior motive when she named Draco, but if her family wanted to think she did it to undermine her husband then she would let them. Blushing high in her cheeks, she demurred, "I did what anyone else in my position would, Grandmother."

"Yes, of course, you did," Cassiopeia sneered.

There was a beat of silence. Callidora took the moment to recompose herself, happy to let the subject of the Malfoy's drop if it meant scrutiny of her own husband lessened. Narcissa understood her more at that moment than she ever had before. Then she opened her mouth again, and any semblance of calm at the table fell away.

"It is so good to be with family again." She said as if she hadn't spent the last few minutes antagonizing everyone who sat around her. "I've missed you all terribly. Even _you_ Pollux, which I never thought would happen considering how dreadful you were to me when I was a child."

Her grandfather glared. "You would create hordes of bees to follow me around whenever I was forced to watch you. You were well aware that I'm deathly allergic to them."

Cassiopeia laughed.

"Oh, Pollux," she shrugged, her lips quirking. "It was just a bit of childhood mischief. You know that you managed to get revenge, don't act as though you didn't."

Melania made a noise of distress. "Callidora now is not the time—"

That was the wrong thing to say. If there was one thing that Callidora loved, it was irritating people. "Good Merlin, Melania. It's been years since I've had to deal with you and your sensibilities, and even after all this time your voice makes my ears ring. I've spent the past few appalling, distressful years shackled up in hiding with my in-laws. It was truly a fate worse than death. I should have braved the Dark Lord. And now that I'm back with family, you tell me it's not the time. Well, _sod that_."

Narcissa coughed, Cassiopeia cackled, and Harfang looked at his wife aghast.

"It wasn't that bad, darling," he said. "You told me Augusta had grown on you."

Callidora nodded. "Indeed, like cobwebs grow over a house, or mold grows over rotten bread. That woman is the single most vexing person I've ever met. And I've met her husband — _no_ , don't defend Herman. He spent the whole duration of our time in the Manor whining about how unfair it was that he had to put up with a Dark Lord ruining his retirement. That man had the gall to speak about Cedrella like she was a _friend_. Well, he should be glad that I decided it wouldn't be worth my time to practice my spellcasting on him. Not to mention that other brother of yours, Algie. I swear if I hadn't met him, I never would have thought it possible for one person to be born lacking an entire brain."

Harfang looked at her in shock. "You never told me—"

"Tell me what good would it have done me when we were stuck living with them? The only ones that were remotely tolerable were that French girl and her baby — and I was forced away from them more often than not!

"Frank thought that you might upset Neville."

She sniffed. "With a name like Neville the boy will have to grow a thick skin sooner or later. I don't know what those two were thinking. Frank and Alice and Neville. It just doesn't fit. No, a boy needs a strong name, like Narcissa's boy, Draco. That's a name to be proud of."

Narcissa bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, Auntie."

Her grandmother brushed her words aside, and said, "Don't thank her, you only did what was right. You are a tribute to this House."

Cassiopeia rolled her eyes. "Yes, the little flower can do no wrong. You've been telling us all that for years. We get it, Irma."

"Is it wrong of me to be proud of her? She's the only one from her generation that didn't fail our House. My other girls either went mad or betrayed us, and the less said of Melania's boys the better. I always knew that Sirius was going to ruin us, but—"

"How dare you!" Melania shouted, struggling against her husband's hold on her wrist as she tried to reach her wand. "Arcturus, _let go_."

Arcturus did not let go. Instead, he stood up, dragging Melania along with him, and glared at everyone who sat around the table. The family magic began to pool around him, drawing on his anger and making the look on his face all the more terrible. Never before, had Narcissa been made to feel so small, so unimportant, with a single glance. She imagined that her grandmother felt even worse, being the one to set him off.

"That is quite _enough_ ," he said, his voice quiet. "If you could all settle down, perhaps we'd be able to start this Council meeting. I wouldn't have thought that such an important matter would let itself be swallowed up by petty grievances and old feuds, but I suppose years without behaving as true Black's can't have helped any of your temperaments."

No one said anything. It was clear that he wasn't speaking as himself anymore, but solely as Lord Black. After a long pause, he finally released Melania, who pinched her lips into a frown, but sat down nonetheless.

"While the letters Melania sent didn't explain word for word what we would be discussing today, I had hoped you all would have enough sense shared between you to puzzle it out. Over the last decade, our House has fallen from prominence. We no longer hold power, not even the memory of it. We've fooled ourselves into thinking that this isn't a problem, that the world wouldn't dare move forwards without our approval, that House Black is still a family that people should _want_ to stand behind. But the truth of the matter is that the people have forgotten us. Cygnus and Druella, Orion and Walburga, none of them worked towards reinstating our reputation. They were all far too besotted with their personal vices and their lives in luxury to work towards anything. They've failed us all."

He let his words ring for a moment, before continuing. "Worse still, we have failed our House. The world may have grown complacent in their regard for us, but before that, _we_ grew complacent ourselves. We have let them forget us. For years now, we have allowed ourselves to toil in the background of the Ministry, playing puppet master with those in power. But what does that get us? Where is our mark on the world? After a few years without control, we're left behind. New Houses pull the strings of the bureaucracy, and House Black is left with nothing."

"And what are we supposed to do about that?" Pollux asked. "The only people tied to this family are old men and women or girls married off and bound to another House. Go ahead and take control of the Wizengamot seat, Merlin knows Walburga's done a number in there, but twenty years in the Ministry won't get us anything. We have no heirs, Arcturus. We have no legacy."

"That's where you're wrong," a voice from the doorway said. Lucretia, it seemed, managed to get through the stone door without making a sound, all for the sole purpose of dramatically interjecting herself into the conversation. She continued, "We have an heir: _Sirius_."

"Sit down, Lucretia," Arcturus sighed, before looking pointedly at Pollux. "In any case, she's correct. Sirius was never officially disowned. He's the last male heir of House Black."

Callidora clicked her tongue. "As if that matters now. The boy's been sentenced to life in Azkaban. I've always known you lot have slippery morals, but to even think of instating a Death Eater as heir of the House is unacceptable. He'd probably kill us all in heartbeat. Frank was so surprised when the news first broke. He couldn't believe that Sirius would ever hurt James Potter. He said they were brothers. Well, he's made clear time and time again that we were no family to him, so imagine what he would do to all of us. It's repulsive."

Melania hissed, and Narcissa couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. Sirius had never struck her as the type to follow others easily — or, more importantly, as a blood purist. He was always happy to galavant around with all sorts of filth, never once worried about how it would impact his reputation or the families. He was a quintessential Gryffindor. Even as a child, he never managed the sort of subtlety and nonchalance his brother and cousins had. Not to mention what happened the last time she'd seen him, captured by Rabastan. For all of that to be an act… she couldn't imagine it.

"He's not a Death Eater," she said, resisting the urge to flinch when all eyes turned to her. "I would know. My sister's a Death Eater. My husband's a Death Eater. I've hosted galas for the Dark Lord and his ilk, and never once has Sirius been mentioned as anything other than a problem to be dealt with."

Her Grandmother reached out to pat her hand. "Sweet girl, perhaps they purposefully misled you. They might have been fond of public displays, but there's a reason the Aurors were never able to get ahead of them. If he really was a spy—"

Cassiopeia snorted in derision. "Are we remembering the same boy? He was a passable liar, but duplicitous he was not. If Sirius ever allowed that maniac to mark him like he marked that bumbling brother of his, I'll eat my own hat. Just because _your_ girls ended up wrapped in the Dark Lords schemes doesn't mean all the children were so careless."

Narcissa ignored the slight. She was perfectly aware of what type of monster the Dark Lord was, and what exactly he made out of her family. If she could somehow travel back in time to keep them all from joining in his crusade she would, but as she couldn't they would all just have to live with the consequences. Regulus was dead, Lucius was likely going to end up in jail, and Bellatrix was going to lose what little remained of her mind.

"You're right Cassie, not all of them were so careless. After all none of my grandchildren were found in the midst of a psychotic break, surrounded by their twelve latest victims," Pollux snapped.

"Do _not_ call me that," Cassiopeia snarled. "I don't know what you've been doing since you crawled back from Germany, but Bellatrix hasn't exactly been careful in covering her tracks. In April there was evidence that she had taken part in a massacre of thirty muggles!"

"It's all speculation!"

" _Thirty_! They may just be muggles, but thirty are dead by her hand. Get your head out of your—"

"We've gotten sidetracked," Lucretia interrupted, raising her voice above Cassiopeia's. "We're not here to discuss what's been done by Bellatrix Lestrange. We're here to discuss our heir, my _nephew_. All of you are always so happy to crow about whose children are worse, but none of you care about what's happened to those children; what injustices they face."

Callidora muttered, "I'd say Azkaban is getting off lightly when it comes to being a Death Eater, let alone the Dark Lord's Right Hand. Completely rotten, I say."

Not wanting another argument to break out, Narcissa quickly drew attention away from her aunt by asking, "What do you mean? What injustices?"

Arcturus was the one who answered her, quieting all of the squabbling conversations and imposing down on all them, the buzz of the family magic a warning hanging around his shoulders. "There was no trial, no assurance of guilt. They had nothing except circumstantial evidence and the damnation of our family name. Can any of you say that you ever imagined Sirius becoming a follower of the Dark Lord? That dumb, brave young man who screamed himself raw about the magical rights of half-breeds and mudbloods; could you imagine that boy becoming a Death Eater?"

No one answered. The silence that fell over the room was so absolute, that Narcissa could scarcely breathe, could scarcely think, because thinking meant comprehending what her Head of House was implying about Sirius. The truth rattled around in her head like a curse. _Innocent_.

"I couldn't imagine it," Arcturus continued, looking more and more drained. "I would never have imagined it. That boy was a lot of things, but a Death Eater? Do we remember the same person? You are all so quick to brush him aside — just like Dumbledore and all of his followers. He has been abandoned by everyone he held dear. The people he left us for have shown their true colors, and it is time now to welcome him home."

"How?" Cassiopeia asked, drumming her nails on the table.

Lucretia smiled. "There is an old law I've found, from the days before Azkaban, that will force Minister Bagnold into releasing Sirius after a month of imprisonment. We just have to be patient."

"Something that isn't this families strong suit," Melania interjected. "All of you must hold this plan close to your chest. If anyone was to get word of it before we freed Sirius… it would be disastrous. In the meantime, we must prepare for his homecoming and the challenges that will face us in our reemergence."

Pollux scoffed, shrugging off the restraining hand Irma placed on his shoulder. "And then what? Are we to let the world believe we have a Death Eater as our heir?"

Callidora, in a rare show of solidarity, said, "For once he's speaking sense. Having any connection to the Dark Lord in the coming years will be nothing but a hindrance, not to mention the stigma that will surround him as the Dark Lord's most favored. He may not have had a trial, but who's to say that he wasn't a Death Eater nonetheless? Who else could have betrayed the Potter's?"

"You're reaching now and you know it," Cassiopeia said, glaring. "All of this is circumstantial. I say we get the brat out of Azkaban and dose him with Veritaserum — that'll get us to the crux of the issue, no need to skirt around it. If he is, by some twist of fate, a Death Eater… well, there are family spells we can use to deal with that. If he isn't then there's no need to fuss over this nonsense anymore. Whatever the case we need an heir. You and Pollux can complain until you're words are as pointless as an elf's, but it won't change the circumstances we're facing."

Arcturus nodded in agreement. "While I stand by my belief that Sirius is nothing but a victim of Dumbledore and Bagnold's maneuverings we will, of course, prepare for the chance that he's fallen under the Dark Lord's charm. As far as public perception goes, that's an area that we must work through together, Pollux. We've dealt with worse scandals in the past."

"I'm not sure if covering up Lycoris' husband's death or my father's attempts on the Minister's life reached the same notoriety that Sirius' crimes have," Pollux said, dryly.

Lucretia scowled at him. "I'm sure his innocence will help clear away any scandal."

"Supposed innocence," Irma said, ever the supporter of her husband.

Again Narcissa found herself speaking in defense of her long-estranged cousin, driven by a familiar, clinging guilt. "Sirius is no Death Eater. I may not be certain about the circumstances that lead to his imprisonment, but I am certain that he would never follow the Dark Lord. He was always sure of who he was unlike Regulus and Bellatrix." _And me_ , she added silently.

Callidora cleared her throat. "We will all be invited to view his questioning under Veritaserum, I assume? To assure the honesty in his testimony."

"He'll be under one of the most powerful truth serums in the world. Why in Mordred's name would his honesty be in doubt?" Cassiopeia asked.

"You will not be present," Arcturus said to Callidora, his patience clearly reaching its limit. "Pollux, Irma, Melania and I shall be the ones administering the questions. Unless you doubt that we have a combined mastery over OWL level potions, then I see no need for anyone else to attend."

She huffed and muttered something under her breath that only Harfang could hear, but ultimately fell silent.

Lucretia spoke up. "There will be strong backlash over Sirius' release, both politically and socially. If any of you have unrevealed goodwill projects to help clear the decay that's fallen over the family name, now would be the time to reveal them. I'd also suggest, probably needlessly, that Walburga is removed from the Wizengamot seat immediately. Her heightened insanity is only hurting us, and we all know how she feels about Sirius."

Irma sniffed but said nothing. Narcissa knew that her grandmother's relationship with her daughter was perpetually strained — from what her father had let slip, Walburga's marriage to Orion may have fit within Black family traditions, but the Crabbe's always had a longstanding, and in Narcissa's opinion rightful, disdain towards inbreeding, and Irma disowned her daughter and her grandchildren from her life as best as she could without Arcturus' support in the matter.

"Walburga will be sealed within Grimmauld Place to live out her final years in comfort," Melania said, trying, and failing, to summon an empathetic smile. "We will all, of course, be able to visit her whenever we wish."

"Wonderful. Merlin knows what I'll do without Walburga's delightful little chats in my life," Cassiopeia laughed.

Lucretia ignored her, as she carried on with her list of suggestions. "Sirius should be brought back to here once freed. It's imperative that the Ministry and Press are kept far away from him, especially since he'll be in an incredibly vulnerable state." She added, unnecessarily, "High-security prisoners are locked away without any human contact. He'll have had nothing but constant exposure to dementors for a month. I can't imagine the toll that will take on him, but we must have a trusted healer stationed here to treat him."

Melania took over for her daughter. "Stay aware of what's happening in the Ministry. Cultivate anyone you think will help us in the coming years. I will send word of the next Council after Sirius is released. So many of our plans will be tied to him that it's useless to develop them now. Nevertheless, be ready for our reintroduction into society.

"We are all Black's," she glanced over at Harfang for a moment, before continuing. "We've endured too much to fall into obscurity now. Some of you still have your doubts, I know that, but you are all placing your trust in the House as is your duty. And now, I, Melania Mary Black, adjourn this family Council. The secrets shared here are now bound to your magic. Any break in faith and the might of House Black will come down upon you. Merry part."

As she spoke the heavy weight of the family magic filled the room, brushing over Narcissa's skin like static electricity and slinking into her bloodstream with a bitter edge that was somewhat reminiscent of an Unbreakable Vow but somehow stronger. Melania hadn't uttered an incantation or a curse but had still managed to wield the unruly family magic and bind everyone present to her will. Had the magic not been so addictive, she might have felt invaded.

Before she could fully snap out of her daze, the Lady Black was standing and speaking again. "You are all free to leave, but please be prepared to be summoned back here if there's any change in plans. Narcissa?"

"Yes?" she answered, wary but still too overwhelmed by the force of the family magic to fully gather her wits.

"Could spare a few minutes to chat with me?" It wasn't a question. "There's something we need to discuss."

* * *

I'm honestly astounded at the amount of interest this story has garnered. I'd just like to thank everyone who's followed, favorited, and reviewed this, you've all kept me motivated to get this chapter out.

If you ever want to talk to me about this story (or, really, anything related to Harry Potter), you should go to my tumblr, ronalbillius. I'm nearly always active, and I love talking about my projects so feel free to pester me.

Next chapter (which will hopefully be up in less than 2 months): Horcruxes are discussed, the Black's find a healer they can trust, and there's a reunion with an estranged family member.


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